


She had her name on her tshirt.

by saintsavage



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:22:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsavage/pseuds/saintsavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Anne Spielsdorf is trying to get her life back together after being pod-peopled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She had her name on her tshirt.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologizes for the roughness. And the drabbleness.
> 
> Edited for less drabbleness!

Impatient hands push her up and away, pacing the length of the room. It was her thinking stride, even if the room was a little small for it. Six steps forward, about face, six back. There's comfort in motion, the sway of her arms encased in sensible light blue cotton. She'd read once that blue conveyed a sense of responsibility and trust - ever since she had incorporated it in to her wardrobe, as though it could make up for what she lacked. Slowly the color had seeped in to her bedding choices, the serving of six she'd bought after graduation in a more hopeful moment, dreaming of Princeton and finally having peers who understood her. Who were just like her. It surrounded her. Six steps forward, about face, six back. Again.

It shouldn't upset her like this, seeing Laura's videos. It was unreasonable. But it did. Worse... there was a sting of hurt. Elizabeth Anne Spielsdorf prided herself on being collected, calm. Orderly. She had a cool head, steady hands, and her integrity was unquestionable. There was comfort in being able to define exactly who and what she was. But that... that _girl_ on the screen, she wasn't Elizabeth at all. But then she was, wasn't she? Six more steps, pivot, six more. Her speed has increased, agitation ruining her orderly path. _I am Elizabeth Anne Spielsdorf. I am a certified genius. I speak four languages, fluently. I am going to Princeton._ Eyes flicker to the image frozen on the monitor, the girl there.

Without thought she is sitting, analyzing her not-self. Betty. Her skirt was appallingly short, and printed. Her lipstick was garish. She had her _name_ on her _tshirt_. In _rhinestones_. She looked cheap. She looked happy. There it is, that wincing point of pain. Elizabeth leans forward, hits play, watches Betty move with such graceful, confident ease. She is so at home there, content with herself. Unconcerned, unworried, unburdened. It's not fair. Elizabeth's GPA is ruined because of Betty. She's wasted so much time and she should hate her, but she can't. Instead she turns the computer on when Laura and her leather-clad, walking-assault-and-battery-charge girlfriend leave, and she just watches it over and over.

Not because she's angry. It's because she's envious and it feels so small and petty. She doesn't like it. Wants to puff up, to announce her many awards and accolades, to stare the feeling down until it slinks away in shame, but emotions don't work that way. Not when she's watching Betty with hungry eyes. Betty with her Cosmo-girl hair and lazy slang. Betty with Laura... Betty having a friend. A _best_ friend. Blurry vision clears with a swipe of one plainly manicured hand.

Betty didn't just have one friend, either. She had friends. _Plural_. When she went missing Laura cared enough to keep looking. She fought to find her. Elizabeth's parents hadn't even called. Betty might slouch and have atrocious taste, but she had friends. Elizabeth can't remember ever having real friends. There hadn't been time. And... and when she had tried, well, it hadn't worked. It was the only failure she could remember, a blemish on her spotless record of excellence. She just wasn't... likable. She was shrill and harsh and unforgiving. She had no soft edges. On more than one occasion she'd been told that she had a stick in a very unpleasant place. It didn't make sense to her, how Laura – how anyone! – could prefer a sophomoric moron like Betty to her. Elizabeth was accomplished and talented. She was brilliant. She didn't understand it.

Unthinking she moves the mouse, clicks on the last entry. Sees herself as Elizabeth. It's a bitter sort of comparison, bright, glittering girl to judgmental shrew but dammit, that's just who she was. Another shutterfall of a second and she's standing again, striding back and forth. There are dozens of pictures in a neat pile on her bed that she's flipped through too many times and more. Betty with her dazzling smile, Betty hugging girls, Betty laughing, Betty dancing and partying and living. Betty with that boy, Kirsch, cheekily grinning over smores and beer.

Still, her fingers graze the stack as she paces, idly. She knows there are pictures of her and Laura in there, along with the rest. They're not at parties, those shots. One is her and Laura on her bed, heads leaned together. Elizabeth doesn't look for it, doesn't have to. She knows on the back Betty scribbled the words 'our first night as roomies!' in her rolling, childish print. Each 'i' is dotted with a heart. Another shows them at an art gallery of some kind. They look like they've been best friends since kindergarten and though she knows shouldn't, though it makes no sense at all, Elizabeth misses those lost moments. Wishes she could have them back.

The rest of the pictures came from the flocks of students who came to see her shortly after the battle. They came to see Betty, happy and excited to have her back before they got a full look at her – at Elizabeth. Cool eyes took them in, almost dismissively. They were the sort of people who would have laughed at her in high school, teased her about her too-tight bun, her perfectly creased slacks. They didn't even deserve to know Betty. All of those encounters ended in uncomfortable, awkward silence. Stilted promises to hang out soon. Her bitter annoyance sends them skittering out the door, though they leave behind things. One girl holds out a bracelet she'd borrowed from Betty, another a sweater. One boy kisses her full on the mouth and she's so shocked she just stands there frozen until he sputters and flees. Others bring words, stories about the lake trip, that time Stacy broke her heel at the mall, the weekend at Marty G.'s house. A few do come back, hope in their eyes. They bring chocolate, flowers. The ones that don't come back, who are afraid and unsure in the face of imperious Elizabeth, send get well cards emblazoned with puppies and balloon lettering. But it doesn't last and she can't blame them. They wanted Betty, they'd loved Betty. Funny thing was, she loved Betty too.


End file.
